


Vignettes

by Ophelia_Raine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cold War, Escort Service, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jealousy, Morning After, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Night Stands, Russian Spy Games, Sexpionage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:24:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/pseuds/Ophelia_Raine
Summary: This is a series of vignettes I've written based on writing prompts I receive on Tumblr: https://0pheliaraine.tumblr.com/Vignette 1— The Perfect Storm — Petyr x SansaSansa wakes up to find herself in a bed that's not her own. Also, she doesn't read the news.Vignette 2— One Night at the Opera — Tywin x Sansa, Petyr x SansaThe one where Sansa accompanies Tywin to the Opera as his date.Vignette 3— Of Swallows and Ravens — Petyr x SansaIt's 1947, and Petyr is a Russian spy and in love. Two very inconvenient things to be.





	1. The Perfect Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wakes up to find herself in a bed that's not her own. Also, she doesn't read the news.

The room looks different in the day — shorter shadows, perfect cream walls with whiter than white cornicing, accents of gun-metal grays and matte blacks, steel and texture juxtaposing soft cottons, thick silks and slippery sheets.  

The bed is bigger than she remembers it being, although she recalls visiting all corners of it now. Little lightbulb flashes of energetic congress prompting her to squeeze her thighs, only to find them tacky.  

She’s naked, of course. And it’s been a helluva while since she last slept this soundly. 

Movement from the corner of her eye and he enters the room, the silk of his pants rubbing softly as he makes his way to her. 

Peter. That’s right. Well, not quite right.

 

_"Name’s Petyr. With a Y.”_

_And she dropped her head to hide a smile, letting her auburn locks fall forward so they covered her face like she knew they would._

_“You’re laughing at me.”_

_“No, no…” she corrected him hastily but when she lifted her face, her eyes were still dancing. He tilted his head slightly and tutted at her._

_“It’s just that… Petyr with a Y?”_

_“This is my name we’re talking about.”_

_“That’s like Cindi with an i.”_

 

Petyr with a Y hands her a steaming mug of something and when the smell of _genmaicha_ fills her nose, she turns sharply to stare at him. He just shrugs as if to say, _lucky guess, I guess?_

Two sips before she smiles weakly and says, “I should go.” 

“Small problem there,” he replies softly and he strolls across to his side of the bed now, lifting the remote to point at the large flatscreen across the room.  

It’s already on a news channel and she sits up now as he increases the volume.  

“Where’s this?” she asks, her voice cracking slightly. She already knows. 

“This is the local news.” 

The screen before them is eerily bright. King’s Landing is a thick blanket of chilling white, the teeming, swirling, lashing ice and snow rendering visibility almost nil. The somber intonement of the newsreader washes over Sansa now, but the occasional phrase sinks in.   

“Did she say it’s _minus thirty?_ ” 

“Yes.” 

“Is that in Celsius?” 

Petyr’s lip twitches. “Fahrenheit. It’s minus thirty-four in Celsius.” 

The look on her face. 

“How… when…” 

“All last night while we slept.” He brings his own coffee mug to his lips and takes a long sip, his expression slightly quizzical. “Didn’t you know about this?” 

“What?”  

“The polar vortex… it’s been on the news for half a week! Every supermarket is wiped out from here to Flea Bottom.” 

“I just got in yesterday,” Sansa replies sheepishly. “Kinda explains why the plane was so empty….” She trails off, little pieces of a jigsaw fitting together. 

“But surely you’d heard about the vortex when you arrived. Don’t you watch the news?” 

“I try not to, actually…” she replies bleakly. “And to be honest, I just thought Polar Vortex was some kind of meteor shower, or like the _Aurora Borealis_ … you know… polar lights?”    

“No,” Petyr manages to say neutrally. “Not at all like the polar lights.” 

They stare at the news a little while longer, though it’s hard to tell if either of them is actually listening or lost in their thoughts. 

“I can’t drive?” 

“Well, for starters, sweetling… you left your car in the underground park at the bar. And no, I’m not fucking going out in this blizzard. My chivalry doesn’t extend to suicide pacts.” 

He returns the remote to his bedside table and saunters off to the ensuite. She listens to the spray of water for a while, reconciling the warmth of his penthouse to the arctic hell out there beyond his wraparound windows. Eventually she joins him and he lets her in wordlessly, shampooing her hair, massaging her scalp till she groans, soaping her body until his fingers slip inside her and work her to a froth. She comes hard into his hand and it all washes off instantly. Brilliant. 

 

Later, he makes them both breakfast. Eggs Benedict, exactly the way she likes them. His Hollandaise sauce is to die for. 

“My phone is flat,” she grimaces. “Could I use your charger?” 

“The network is down, but sure — it’s on the far wall, beside the turntable. Might as well get used to this place, seeing how you’re probably going to be here a while.” 

She stops. “Define ‘a while’.” 

“Weather report says this will hold for a week. My gods, do you really not read the news?” 

“I read books,” she replies defensively. Even though they’re about the same height, his bathrobe is still too big. She’s going to have to swap for something else later. Maybe one of his T-shirts. Maybe nothing at all. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” 

“A little too late for that, sweetling.” But he softens his tone when he adds, “No, I don’t mind you staying. I could use the company. I’ve stocked up, and there’s plenty of space if you need privacy.” 

She hopes he doesn’t expect her to sleep in a guest room, but she looks around to see where it might be. Just in case.  

His bedroom is up the spiral stair, but the rest of the rooms are on the same level as his massive kitchen and living. It was hard to see in the dark last night and it wasn’t like she was mentally taking a grand tour of the premises when they were fumbling up the stair half drunk. A bit of a bruise has started to blossom on her knee from when it connected with a step in mid-fuck. No, they hadn’t even made it to the bed the first time.  

This robe is useless. She runs through his clothes, picks out an old T-shirt that ends just below where her panty would have ended, had she been wearing one.  

The trouble with not arriving packed for a polar vortex. 

A scrounge around the rest of the house. There are no board games, no magazines. Not even a pack of playing cards. Good music, but now even the TV reception is looking touch-and-go. 

“The network is down…” she repeats slowly. “So no cell… and no internet?” 

“It might come back later.” 

“And what if there’s a blackout?” 

Petyr shrugs. “Then we make a sandwich.” 

“I’m talking about the entertainment.” 

“Am I boring you already, sweetling.” He tuts. His eyes are greener in the daylight — and it _is_ still daylight, even though the thick drapes are drawn tight, the lamps around the room are turned on, and the world outside is raining knives of ice. They are the same height but when he kisses her, he takes over everything — all the oxygen in the room, all her senses, all her being.  

_Careful, girl._   

This time she lays him down slowly, splaying him on his own leather couch as she slips the silk knot from his pants, as she eases the elastic over his painful erection. She traces his scar with her tongue from neck to navel before wrapping her lips around him and sinking down, taking as much of him as she can and stroking the rest of his length firmly until he starts to softly pant, a hand pressed gently on the back of her skull. He’s too much of a gentleman to grip and pull her hair. For now.  

Somehow she had known — or at the very least, she had always hoped that it would be like this. The moment she saw him in that bar, she knew the search was over. Petyr Baelish, Petyr with a Y… They’re not on last-name basis quite yet, but come on. The man’s infamous, but only within the right circles. 

She needs him. And right now, she literally has him by the balls. 

“Polar lights,” he chuckles later, fondly. “Did you really not know?” 

Sansa doesn't answer.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt from GreedisGreen.  
>  _How about a scene with Petyr and Sansa trapped in this crazy polar vortex that the US is going through atm? Bonus points for working in "colder than a witch's tit". ;p_
> 
> Sorry about leaving out the witch's tit... but hope you enjoyed this one! And thanks for the prompt. Such a good one, and definitely got the juices flowing.


	2. One Night at the Opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Sansa accompanies Tywin to the Opera as his date.

She came hard, one hand clutching the headboard before her in a death grip while the other squeezed his hand pressed hard over her right breast. A strangled cry as she trembled without control, her legs softening suddenly like warmed butter and it was just as well that he was right behind her then, his imposing figure easily supporting her full weight as she sank back into him, his cock slick, unyielding and embedded still. Sansa felt her head yanked back, his mouth over hers brooking no argument as he continued to buck even deeper still. One, two and he came more noisily, a deep groan that seemed to rumble the bed, that informed and assured her immediately of his personal satisfaction.  

“You are protected?” Tywin thought to ask after the denouement, but it was only a cursory courtesy. Sansa nodded, smiling to reassure her guest as she always did. They waited together in breathless silence for a customary moment before he took his leave first, rolling off the bed in one fluid motion without so much as a backward glance. He had kept her company frequently enough now for her to recognise that Lord Tywin Lannister must always take the lead, whether in the boardroom or her bed.  

She had anticipated this, of course, when he'd told her he would come by an hour early. He’d paid for the whole evening and night, and he was always generous. Straightaway, she’d quoted him her highest price when they'd first met and he had raised a knowing eyebrow before growling his acceptance. “But never rip me off again,” he had warned her immediately after. “Make me a fool, and I will exact my pound of flesh with interest, Miss Stark.” 

The red floor-length gown was on loan from the couturier that Tywin had put in touch with Sansa. Had Sansa been his mistress, he would have probably bought the gown outright, for it fitted her like the softest kid glove. But Tywin kept no mistresses, even as he refused to call her his whore. He simply wrote her off in the company books as a silent corporate sponsorship deal, funding her expensive university education. A good deed.  

Five minutes in the shower, another five to shimmy into the gown and ten minutes for hair and make-up. Sansa emerged in record time, gala-ready. 

“We’re going to be late,” was all he said, though the gold flecks in his emerald eyes glinted their tacit approval. Even in her unforgiving stilettos, he still managed to dwarf her. 

 

 

Two of King’s Landing's current operatic darlings were performing tonight along with the Westerosi Philharmonic Orchestra, and Lannister Holdings had bought the most prominent opera box for the week in the full knowledge that Olenna Tyrell’s favourite granddaughter was a patron and personal friend of the prima donna. And Sansa was no fool; she knew full well that Tywin understood her own pedigree and was confident she would hold her own. Even if her father's house now lay decimated and impoverished, the Stark name still spoke of honour within noble circles. And snobs like the cynical, leathery Lady Olenna oddly still respected such things.  

They entered the Opera House the way all glitterati did — the stretch limousine pulling up to the long carpeted stair, the horseshoe driveway sealed off otherwise to less extraordinary traffic. Tywin led her up the steps in full view of the pap, his face grave, his steps measured and commanding as always, almost as if he were bored with the performance already. But he kept one hand firm on the small of her back and she hid her surprise when his hand slipped over to curve around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She had glanced up at him then, but his countenance betrayed nothing even as his grip tightened. 

It had been a while since Sansa attended an opera, but alas — tonight was not to be. Barely before the opening duet could begin, Lord Tywin covered her hand to press his meaning, and she bowed dutifully as she made her excuses to leave the box.  

Outside in the private gallery and milling about the whitewashed room was a small collection of the _haut monde_ , a veritable who’s who in couture suits and gowns balancing champagne flutes and wine glasses on their fingertips. She knew half of them by name if not by sight and if they were surprised that Tywin Lannister should keep such youthful company, they were either too polite or impotent to say so. Sansa earned her keep as best she could, smiling winsomely at everyone Tywin thought to introduce her to, one gloved hand affixed on the crook of Tywin’s arm. She knew enough about everyone to ask politely after their families and deflect questions about her own to the point where Tywin himself felt at ease enough to let her go.  

She was still on her first glass of champagne and almost starting to enjoy herself when Tywin beckoned her to the corner where he stood. 

“Sansa, I’d like you to meet my former CFO, Petyr—“ 

“Baelish.” His name dropped from her lips with the slightest quiver. Petyr blinked once and then he stared, the green of his eyes growing bright. 

“You know each other.” 

“We’ve met.” Petyr’s words were clipped and Sansa flinched inwardly. A hint of the telltale vein at his temple caught her eye and she could not help but stare now, a feeling of dread pooling in her stomach. But he smoothed his hair quickly and visibly relaxed enough to explain for the both of them. 

“That is, her mother… is an old acquaintance of mine. We’ve met before through family things.” 

“I see.” 

“So lovely to see you again, Mr Baelish,” Sansa smiled, raising her hand to grip his own. Petyr pumped her hand once, almost crushing her fingers as she felt each and every one of his rings.   

“Likewise,” he murmured before both men summarily dismissed her, diving quickly into industry intrigue that neither concerned nor involved her. When she slipped away, neither man appeared to notice her absence. 

_Petyr_ … And she fled to the ladies’ room immediately, locking herself in the nearest cubicle as she gathered her wits. The look on his face, the way he’d stared at her. The wordless accusation. Her guilt. 

_He knew._

And yet what right did Petyr have? None! But anxiety gripped her lungs anyway and she forced herself to breathe slower, deeper. _I cannot stay here,_ she told herself. _Tywin will know something is wrong. It’s unprofessional._

She washed her hands, fixed her hair and lipstick. Even under the flattering ambient light, such a pale rendition of her porcelain face stared back at her. Blotchy. _He will know. Both of them will know._

When she finally emerged, it appeared almost everyone had returned to their boxes. Tywin stood alone, his tuxedo-clad bodyguard unobtrusive in the background. This was the most privacy the both of them would ever have together, save their moments of transactional intimacy in the bedroom.  

“Is Petyr your client?” Tywin asked without preamble, never one to beat about the bush if he could help it. 

“No,” she answered truthfully. And because she would never underestimate the man before her, she went on to tell a truth. “He used to be a client. He’s moved on since. We both have.” 

“Did you know he was going to be here? That he used to work for me?” 

“No, Tywin. I promise you, no.” She watched as he squinted at her, the cogs in his mind whirring for any possibility of collusion and treachery. Eventually he nodded, seeming satisfied for now.

“I understand the nature of your work, Miss Stark. However, this _overlap_ is untidy. I engaged you for your discretion as much as for your... effectiveness. I do not care to be disappointed.” 

“You won’t be,” she promised her client as much as she dared. 

“I especially do not care for the messiness of emotions, do you understand me?” 

“Mr Baelish and I had a purely professional arrangement and all that is in the past.” The half-truth fell from her lips as sincere and wholesome as apple pie, and she stared at Tywin now, unblinking and wide-eyed. 

A small silence stretched for an eternity as she searched Tywin's face for clues and came up empty once again. He would give her nothing, and yet she could not help wonder if there was something there.  

“Shall we go in,” he eventually commanded, offering his arm once more. Sansa followed Tywin in, praying fervently that even if he did not believe her one jot, that he cared even less.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt by Jonarya:  
>  _For prompts ask..how about fake relationship , fake relationship, fake relationships.. And btw welcome back love :)_
> 
> On hindsight, I realise that this isn't QUITE what you were probably hoping for, chicky. (I'm imagining you were gunning more for a story like Sansa bringing Petyr to a family function as her new boyfriend, perhaps?) However, this scenario is actually part of a bigger story I had plotted ages ago but not written yet. I thought it was still fitting for your prompt as it IS rather about a fake relationship, in that Tywin paid for Sansa to be there as his date. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, surprises and all. ;-)


	3. Of Swallows and Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 1947 and Petyr is a Russian spy in love.

He had heard that she was very beautiful. But Very Beautiful did not prepare him for Alayne.

He had followed her around the world for a quarter year but always from a distance, interrogating her mind without ever speaking to her. This had always been his way and even though Russia had shown her usual impatience, Pyotr knew better. You don't seduce your target without first understanding her mind.

Pyotr Belevich hadn't always been a Raven. The NKGB first recognised his innate talent for making money, using friends, and lying barefaced. But when he effortlessly bedded and then wedded the infamous hag Lysa Arryn to gain her family's political connections for Russia, Russia paid attention.

 

~ • ~ • ~

 

Enoch Asher Adamo Ogden*, the only child of a strict Catholic Italian mother and a mild-mannered Episcopalian priest, was named after an ancient prophet, a son of Jacob, and the first biblical man to populate the earth. He was a handsome, decent man — a father of three grown children to his wife Corine, a staunch Christian, a lifelong public servant, a quiet and effective statesman. Five years ago, no one would have quite anticipated his swift rise to power but here he stands now — America's Under Secretary of State and Truman's confidante when the Soviet Union should come to trouble his mind, which was often.  

In the same year Enoch came to be Under Secretary, Alayne Stone came to warm his bed and his heart. 

To their credit, they were each the soul of discretion; two careful, patient individuals used to long swathes of time apart, bound to each other nevertheless. That the older man loved his young mistress was obvious to Pyotr; he once shared a wall with them in a modest hotel room in Stockholm. And to the untrained eye, Alayne looked every bit as quietly taken by her clandestine and powerful lover. 

Three months, and Pyotr knew better. Alayne was discreet and loyal, but there was a detachment to her manner. A delicate fragility about her. A vulnerability he could exploit.

 

~ • ~ • ~

 

“So what can you offer us, Mr Baelish.”

It’s a standard interrogation room, the three walls white and dull, the light overhead harsh and unflattering.  Across the fourth wall stretches a dark and soulless window — a two-way mirror, nifty invention. Russian technology, of course.

There is no denying the prettiness of his _inkvizitor_ — small, high breasts, clever brown eyes, thick, softly curling hair that she allows to flow down her back. But this is no interrogation, of course. Australians are not so formal. “We’d like to have a chat, Mr Baelish.” And then they send this little girl in. In Russia, she would at least have put up her hair — one tight, unforgiving knot high atop her head, every strand of hair pulled back so austerely that her big brown eyes would have narrowed in suspicion by default.

Miss Margaery Tyrell — if that is indeed her real name — speaks with that cultivated, almost-pommy accent that belies her pedigree: upper class, probably Adelaide-born, with ancestors who were free-settlers or at least strove hard to sound like them. And yet there is the odd word that gives him pause. Slavic grandmother, perhaps? 

He lowballs first, tossing her a few scraps about two of their mid-ranking diplomats with tenuous ties to Communism. But she doesn’t bite — not that he ever expected her to.

“You will need to give me a hell lot more than that to secure your political asylum, Mr Baelish."

He leans back in his cheap plastic chair and smiles. 

 

~ • ~ • ~

 

On hindsight, he should have known he was in trouble before he even started. For how could he not fall in love, in lust? Everything about her was his Achilles heel. The lush, red hair that smelled of spring and heat, of sweetness and fragrant passion. Piercing blue eyes, an aristocratic turn of the nose, of the heel as she swept the room with a glance before walking away. He had only known one other woman with such lethal and quiet elegance. 

It was fatal, fatal.

She was lonely. The more Truman sought her married lover’s counsel, the less he came to warm her bed. But their reunions were always passionate, and always conducted away from America. Enoch was a careful man. And Alayne, somehow she managed to find a way to him always. 

And Pyotr to her, of course.

But she was lonely when he finally settled beside her in the London-bound plane, him flashing her a small apologetic smile when their arms brushed as he lit his cigar before offering her a light as well. The air in the little plane was so thick with smoke it was almost too difficult to read but he made a point of it to ignore her as she snuck long glances at his work, as he laboured away on government contracts pertaining to his fake uranium mining private company. 

She fell asleep eventually, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. 

 

~ • ~ • ~

 

“You are compromised.”

“So you say.”

“I do say. And I know.”

Pyotr searches his pockets and his face lights up like a little boy’s when he comes across his treasure: a cigarette. _Belomorkanal_ — cheap and nasty, as far as Margaery is concerned. But also unfiltered and obscenely strong. She’d tried it once, on a dare, and just about coughed up her left lung that day. He offers her another stick and she smiles thinly as she declines the odious thing. He looks entirely too glad when she does, and who can blame him: they never sell those shitty things in Australia. _Belomorkanal_ means nothing here. But they do extremely well in the Soviet Bloc. 

Margaery Tyrell watches him through the brackish smoke and tries again. “How do I know you’re not just making shit up to get a free pass into my country, Mr Baelish.”

He nods, conceding her point. “You don’t. Which is why I have proof.”

“Of what, exactly.”

“A Soviet presence.”

She scoffs. “That could mean anything. You’re here, aren’t you. _You’re_ technically a ’Soviet presence’. And yet you are hardly a threat to our nation’s security, Mr Baelish. One little Russian man...”

This time his smile — knowing, cruel even — almost induces her to regret her words but her mouth is still twisted to the side in wry, mocking amusement. 

“More than a single operator, Miss Tyrell. A Soviet ring, in fact. And it winds itself all the way to the top, too.”

He sits back and eyes her smugly, taking in the way her face slackens in disbelief.

It is now that Margaery excuses herself and leaves him to his horrible cigarette, slipping out the door and then into the room right next to it. She chooses to stand beside the other agent already facing the window, taking in the way her colleague is tapping her lower lip thoughtfully. They both stare at Pyotr and it is Margaery who breaks the silence first, lapsing into the Mother Tongue for the first time that afternoon.

“He’s still fucking lying. I don’t have him yet.”

It’s like she never heard her. Sansa Starikov continues to gaze ahead, her eyes cold and dispassionate. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft and almost musical. 

“He was never going it make it easy, Comrade. Give it time.”

 

~ • ~ • ~

 

He had bought her a drink, she remembered. It was at the bar in the Grand Hôtel — Oslo that time, not Stockholm. He had bought her a drink, and she had let him. He had charmed her, and she had let herself be charmed. He was so debonair that night in his white tie and tails, so wildly wicked and funny, his small even teeth glinting in the warm light, his eyes flashing in careful mischief. And when he would accidentally brush her hand now and again, there would be the electricity. She would feel it all the way down her back and she had wondered, for a wild moment, if he had dared to spike her drink. Right there, in the middle of the Nobel Peace Prize Awards. The audacity of the man.

She had found herself chatting and he had listened. And when he had finally asked his probing questions, she had evaded him easily with a coquettish bow of her head, letting her dark fringe of natural lashes sweep her cheeks so he caught his breath for a fraction of time. Eventually, she had to tell him about Enoch. But he had not seemed at all surprised or even disappointed. 

“You have a fella you say… but does he have you?” And they had laughed together, both of them with their fake accents and their fake lines, and the mirth had not touched either of their eyes.

Pyotr had left her hanging, as all good Ravens do. She had not taken the bait, as all good Swallows understand.

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

There is a war coming, to be sure. There may even be a war on now. The whole world stands on tenterhooks as they watch two unnatural wartime allies turn to natural enemies in the aftermath of a bloody war fought with guns, and then bombs, and then _the_ bombs.

Russia will never forgive America, Pyotr knew. Tens of millions of her dead and America had turned her back on every one of them, not wanting to know, caring even less. Thank fuck for the fucking Nips and Pearl Harbour, he grimaced. Because in typical cowboy fashion, America had ridden in fresh-faced, gallant and heroic in the end. The calvary, the trumpets, the swell of music, the righteous fury… Two bombs and now there were no innocents.

It was like a virgin fucked for the very first time. The sacred had been defiled, the promise broken. And now she was fair game for all: weaponised nuclear energy, deployed.

Enoch Ogden. At first, he had almost been Russia’s friend. He was certainly not her bitter enemy. For much of the ‘40s, he had sought détente with the Soviet Bloc. He could be reasoned with, he could be coaxed and cajoled. But perhaps his recent proximity to the most powerful man in his country had finally gone to his head. 

Because in the last year, Enoch had become a problem to be solved and solved decisively. The man had lost the taste for peace. This bloodless war remains bloodless because the world still lacks the will and the heart for another great war so soon after the last two. But make no mistake: Enoch was and remains this war's chief architect.

He waited. Pyotr waited for the fight that had to come. For the more Enoch served at the pleasure of his President, the less he pleasured and served his young queen. 

It finally came one day in the restaurant of the George V, the hotel just off the Champs-Elysées in the 8th _arrondissement_ of the city of Paris. A call had come through for Alayne and he had slipped after her, managing to eavesdrops as they directed her to a private booth with thin, false walls. Enoch had cancelled his trip; he could not make their tryst, their _rendezvous_ and Alayne, she was deeply upset even as her words were honeyed and gracious. Pyotr listened now, and yes — there was some kind of anniversary, a promise broken. When she left the booth, her anger glowed brighter than her hurt and bitter disappointment . 

He was there to catch her, of course. His alibi was not quite so watertight but she barely seemed to notice nor care that they should run into each other yet again, only that she was profoundly grateful to have found a friend. “May I call you Friend?” she asked later, shyly.

“If you’re comfortable to, Alayne. I’d like that very much.”

“And why would you like that?” she asked with genuine curiosity. There was nothing of the coquette in her question. She was so artless. 

“You are a beautiful, young lady,” he smiled. “And I am honoured that you would even want to spend time with an old man like me.”

“You are not that old. Don’t be silly, now.” But from then on, she chose to confide in him. He asked her out to dinner and she accepted almost immediately, perhaps out of revenge. It was a good sign, Pyotr thought.

'“He’s not like he was before. Things have really changed ever since…” Alayne bit her lip, reluctant still to even speak Ogden’s name. But she learned how to talk about him without talking about him, and Pyotr was only too happy to listen. It wasn’t the first time Ogden had done this to her. She wasn’t surprised, only disappointed.

“It is his job, I hate his job. That’s his real mistress—“ She bit her tongue again, the glass of 1880 Madeira mingling with her mortification to redden her cheeks. Pyotr appeared not to notice her _faux pas_ at all; instead, he reached over to hold her hand as if to steady her. She did not pull away. 

He let her talk, the wine loosening her tongue, the disappointment loosening her inhibitions and loyalty. Pyotr held her hand as he started to rub comforting circles, admiring the smoothness of her, the _tightness_ of youthful skin and then he swallowed as he thought of other secret, narrow places… And because she could not read his prurient thoughts, still she did not pull her hand away. Eventually, her anger ebbed along with her words. And then it was two new friends quiet and alone in a restaurant, contemplating the view of the _Arc de Triomphe_ and the Eiffel Tower bathed in romance and moonlight. The evening had long waned into night, and he felt himself wanting her terribly, he remembers. 

He almost kissed her that night, so soon. He thought she was hoping for it, really. He could always tell.

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

“We know you’re a senior member of the NKGB, Mr Baelish. A Major General.”

Pyotr lifts an eyebrow and his smile turns into a smirk. “I’m impressed,” he says and manages to sound the very opposite.

“You can understand, therefore, our reluctance to take you seriously. To want to believe your request for political asylum.”

“I see.”

“You have not been straight with us from the start.”

He smooths his moustache with his forefinger and thumb, sweeping down to sharpen the neat, pointed beard on his chin. An old habit. “I have not,” he agrees amiably. “But it is as much for my own safety as it is for yours. Russia will not take kindly to one of their seniors defecting. And it will not be beyond them to stage my changing loyalties as your capture instead of my defection. It will be politically and personally inconvenient to all.”

“Why Australia?” Margaery asks once again. 

“I am tired, Miss Tyrell. And what is there not to love about Australia?” He spreads his arms and gestures to the stark white room. “Unlike America, you really are the land of the free.”

Margaery laughs girlishly. “Now I know you’re lying. That isn’t it, is it Mr Baelish.”

His smile only broadens. And then, with an affected American drawl — “Every lie has some truth in it, sweetheart."

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

It was a punchline, a joke. Even a badge of honour, or pride. The Americans, the Poms, any expatriate would invariably return home from Moscow with their favourite tale of an attempted seduction by a Russian swallow or raven. _Sexpionage_ , they would murmur with a suggestive waggle of the brow. 

It was a fucking cliché. It was a fucking cliché because it worked.

The way to a man’s heart is often far simpler than one thinks or expects for himself, in the end. With Alayne, Petyr had hoped to glean valuable intel on Enoch’s next moves but even he had been pleasantly surprised by her talent for extracting nuggets of pure gold. More than that, he was already compiling a delicious dossier of _kompromat_ that would hurt Ogden and, by extension, Truman if the former were to go too far with this Marshall Plan — America’s little anti-communism bribe to West Europe. Puritanical sentiment seldom forgave sexual infidelity, especially when it entailed rolling around on the beds of luxurious tax-financed hotel rooms around the world, in a post-war economy.

The ironic consequence of Pyotr's progress would be to remove the sting of his own  _kompromat_. Alayne cannot be tempted to leave Enoch for Petyr. And Pyotr cannot allow himself to let her.

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

“Why are you with him?”

She turned on her side to look into his face then. Daybreak was squeezing itself through the slits of the blinds, tracing her form with a preternatural glow. 

Christ, she was beautiful.

“He’s powerful. And I like powerful men.”

“He’s so old.”

She stared at him archly. “ _You’re_ old.”

He should have felt insulted, but instead he laughed. “Not like he is. Not the way he walks, like the burden of the world is heaped on his shoulders.”

“He cares for me.”

“I care for you.”

“You shouldn’t say such things, Petyr.” She rolled back on her back and stared at the ceiling. Quietly, “You’re married.”

Ten long seconds passed before he answered her. “I never told you I was married, sweetling. How did you know?”

“Because the best ones always are.”

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

“Stop making fun of my boyfriend like that,” she begged another time, the uncharacteristic petulance tugging at her voice. “It’s not fair to him. He’s not even here! He can’t defend himself.”

“Would you like him here?” Petyr purred, “watching us as we are now? Would that make it better for your boyfriend?” He slipped another finger into her, stoking his own arousal as she gasped and then curled into him. 

“You don’t know him. You don’t know what he must do, the decisions he has to make…”

“He must be _so_ important.”

“He is. More than you know.”

“More important than me?” And he pushed in as far as his fingers would go, curving expertly so they pressed that cushion of nerves. Over and over he bullied that spot, relentless even as his hand started to cramp, until she clung to him almost sobbing, until she could no longer speak in words, only in one long wail. He felt her body grow hot, watched as her eyes squeezed shut, the beads of perspiration gathering at her temples. He felt her cunt turn so slippery he could slip in a third and then watched impassively as she climaxed by his hand. His hand, not _his_ … 

Later, much later — “Jealousy is so ugly on you, Petyr.”

“I can't help it, beautiful. Don't make me apologise because I fucking won't.”

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

“I don’t have him yet, the slippery bastard.”

The sun must be starting to set, although neither of them has had the pleasure to witness the spectacle for themselves today. Sansa watches Margaery warily, only too familiar with the older woman’s impatience. It isn’t just the events of today, Sansa knows. For how many months has it been? How many resources has the MVD thrown at Pyotr? If not for his high connections in the NKGB, they’d have had him by now.

Margaery slams the wall suddenly and Sansa glares at her after glancing back at Pyotr, who appears not to have heard. 

“He’s a snake!” Margaery hisses. “It should be enough that he wants to defect, surely! Haven’t I done enough?”

“You know he will just claim to be up to some scheme,” Sansa patiently explains, knowing full well that she states the obvious to them both. “No… You need to hear him betray us, and right from the heart. His own words, dripping black with truth. Something that proves his allegiance is no longer with Russia. You will know it when you hear it,” Sansa rests her hand on her colleague’s shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze, even as her words are firm. 

"Then,” Sansa nods slowly, “then we have him."

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

She remembers watching him sleep and wondering if he knew, all that time, who she really was. 

More disturbingly, she remembers almost hoping that he did. That he saw right through her, that he stayed anyway. She remembers almost desperately wanting to tell him. 

Never before. In all her missions, she had never wanted to blow her own cover like that. What was it about Pyotr, she wonders now. Why the yearning for the truth? Was it because he saw her better than any man she’d ever been with? Was it because she had to know if what he said was true, if he really, really loved? 

_Loves?_

Why should it be so important to her?

He had woken up suddenly, as if hearing her own thoughts. He had rolled, then reached over instinctively to cup her bottom and she was instantly wet for him.

“What are you thinking, my love,” he had murmured, sleep slurring his words a little.

“That I don’t know you at all. That perhaps you’ve been lying to me all along.”

“And what do you want to hear from me?” There had been gentle amusement in his voice. She can still hear it. “That I am a drug dealer, perhaps? Or a criminal mastermind escaping his government, who travels the world with you, even to Australia?”

“Maybe even a spy!” 

They had laughed and he had brushed his lips across the peak of her nose. “Maybe I am a spy.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” she remembered giggling, even as her eyes had blown wide.

“You know what they say… Every lie has some truth in it, sweetling."

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

She mentioned Enoch less now, but she still wouldn’t mention him by name. Sometimes they would watch the news together and she would show off a little. It was only natural, Pyotr supposed. She was so young, and she must be allowed to feel like she was his equal, if not his contemporary.

“Will your country go to war with the USSR, you think?” 

He kissed her temple to buy himself time. “President Truman’s a smart guy,” he shrugged. “And communism has to be stopped, even if it will cost us almost everything. I’ve seen the effects of Marxism firsthand, and it ain’t pretty. It'll be the end of capitalism and the world economy if we let the Reds run riot over Europe. And I don’t see any other country really stepping up. Yours is still licking its wounds from the war. Your empire’s pretty much gone, you got nothin’ left. So it’s down to us now.”

She was an inquisitive one, naturally bright with a fair grasp of world history for her age, and he enjoyed taking the time to answer her questions, careful to seed thoughts, to educate her — all the better for her to understand what else she could extract from her pillow talk with her pious Enoch. Pyotr hated him now. Usually he couldn’t give a fuck about the other lovers of his targets, but with Ogden… Pyotr took great pleasure in warming Alayne’s bed in the Under Secretary’s yawning absence. And it was getting personal now: it would please Pyotr immeasurably to see the older man fall.

He could not ask Alayne to give Enoch up, of course. But it burned deep within him that she never left him for Pyotr, that she always ran back to her powerful American statesman.

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

He cracked one cheerful Saturday afternoon, when they were in Siena. 

“Why won’t you leave him?”

Later, he told himself it was as much a question to test her usefulness as it was a desperate need for him to know. Lies, lies, lies. 

She looked up from packing to stare at him. “It’s not so easy, Petyr. He's a powerful man.”

“So you’ve said. Many, _many_ times.”

“I think he loves me.”

“And I am deeply and passionately in love with you. Every cell of my body belongs to you, wants to be with you, dies a little each day for you. Doesn’t that count for something? I am a jealous man, Alayne. You said so yourself.”

“What do you want from me!” she cried suddenly, balling a silk top and throwing it into her suitcase.  She made a noise of frustration from the back of her throat — something caught between a growl and a scream — and then she started pacing the room. It was as if something between them had finally snapped. 

“You want me to leave him?” She sounded almost incredulous. “You really want me to leave… _him_ … for you?”

“I do, my greatest love. But I can’t ask that of you, not in a million years.”

“And why the hell not!”

“Because I am a spy, sweetling.”

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

She had not known what to do with that. So she'd stared at him stonily before grabbing her wallet and keys. She had flounced off like a little girl in a tantrum to give them both space. 

Time. She had needed time to think, to regroup.

When she returned later that day, he had gone. His bags, his things, all of it. And it had only made her wonder more. Because what the fuck had just happened? Why had he told her that? Had he actually just blown his own cover, or had he been trying to blow hers? 

And again, she had to wonder who had the first cut of the deck. Who was truly holding the cards that mattered.

She'd thought she had them all.

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

The next time they met, they did not touch each other. He had appeared at the wharf and she had taken one look at him and then started walking towards the pier, only to look back at him as if to say, “Are you coming?”

She could always surprise him. And perhaps that is why he loves her.

They each kept their hands clasped chastely behind their backs. He had to do it, to stop himself from reaching out to touch her.

“Are you even American?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “I am Russian.”

She paled instantly but said nothing more. They walked in silence for the longest five minutes of his life before —

“Did you use me, Petyr. All this time… did you know about Enoch?”

“Yes. And… yes.” 

Her eyes filled with pain.

“But then I fell in love with you, you see.”

She nodded, as if she already knew the answer, as if his words merely served to confirm her private suspicions.

“Are you going to kill Enoch?”

“No, Alayne. As much as I tell myself I would love to, that would be foolish of me. A man can be steered in many other ways.” He looked tired suddenly. Depleted, the air let out.

“Do you even want to be a spy?” 

“I love my country.”

“Do you love me?” She did not ask him who he loved more. Perhaps she could not bear to know. 

“Have you ever thought of leaving? Of giving the whole thing up?”

“You mean the spying? All the time now, sweetling…” He broke off then, unable to say much more. Instead his hand searched for hers, no longer able to stand not knowing. When she laced her hand in his, his sigh was long and shaky. 

They felt the scorching sun on their backs, gazed across the stunning blue waters, a whole world away from frigid, deathly Russia.

“Wouldn't it be nice to run away together?” Alayne murmured softly, her words musical again, her soft skin warm as she leaned against him. “To live here forever, just you and I and a beach shack facing Antartica.”

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

God, if only she were allowed to kill him!

“Lies,” Margaery is spitting out presently, her Easygoing, Good-Times Australian Girl cover well and truly in tatters now. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Mr Baelish. But you certainly don’t strike me as a man who is truly interested in securing his future in Australia.” She grabs both armrests now, leaning in so she can practically smell his cologne as she levels with him. “We can help you,” she insists through gritted teeth. “But you know how this works: we won’t do this for free. You have to give us something real.”

“That accent,” he muses instead. “I must know… is it Slavic?”

“No—“

“Romanian?”

“What are you—“

“When you get upset, there’s something in the way you say words like 'security'. And your vowels. They’re not very consistent. Sometimes I even think I hear a faint echo of Mother Russia...”

“Mr Baelish,” Margaery scowls at him, furtively shooting the wall of mirror an anxious look. “I think you’re avoiding the question.”

“I want to be in Australia. I want to defect. I can trade invaluable secrets for my freedom here.” It's like he's reading a script. Margaery sighs. 

“Can I be frank, Mr Baelish?” Margaery perches on the edge of the desk now, and he stares at her as he waits for her to continue. 

“I don’t trust you,” she admits, shrugging as if it cannot be helped, like temperamental weather. “You’re a relatively high ranking Intelligence officer, we know you’re a damn good spy which probably means that they treat you quite well… you have a stellar record. Why Australia?”

“I like the sun,” he replies mildly, as if this were the first time she’s asked the question instead of the hundredth. “I’m sick of secret spy business. I want out.”

“You… want… out.” Margaery laughs mirthlessly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t… I don’t believe you!”

“You are young.” He lights another infernal cigarette, the fucking chainsmoker. “You cannot imagine getting tired of ambition. But I can.”

“A man like you doesn’t grow tired of ambition.”

“A man like me?” Petyr’s eyes start to glint and as he leans forward, Margaery swears she can feel Sansa tensing behind the glass. “You seem to know an _awful lot_ about a man like me."

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

On hindsight, he should have known he was in trouble before he even started. Before he let her take him into her bed, before he allowed her to unbutton his shirt, to kiss down the length of his scar, to take him deep into her mouth until he moaned.

They made love slowly, repeatedly. Before, as soon as they were alone, it was a clash of bodies, of souls. Thunder and lightning, and then one would come in a blinding flash and the other only a moment after. But this time was different. There was a new reverence, a bitter sweetness, an ache. 

They lay there now, the sheen of perspiration cooling on their skin, sheets twisted and soiled, legs intertwined. His cock lay limp and emptied, his heart full, his mind tortured and at peace.

"Is your name really Petyr Baelish?"

" _Dah._ " He stroked her hair from her face, and she inclined her head. Two bottomless blue eyes staring at him in wonderment.

"Is it really!"

"Yes." He smiled, for it was true enough. Petyr Baelish. Pyotr Belevich. As far as cover names went, this was by far his most cursory and pathetic attempt at subterfuge. And yet he must have loved her from the first to want to give her that: the truth, or the closest incarnation of it.

It was the most he'd ever given anyone. If he had to do it over, he knows he'd still have given her his name. Even knowing now that he'll never see her again.  

 

 ~ • ~ • ~

 

He will never give her what he wants, only what he thinks she wants to hear. Bastard.

"I still don't believe you, Mr Baelish." Margaery rubs her eyes. This lighting will be the death of her. "I don't buy your bullshit, there is no Soviet espionage ring. We're too far away from the action, everyone thinks we're the arse-end of the world, and right now you're the only one to stand to gain by making up shit. There is no ring."

"I hate to disappoint you." And he retrieves a folded piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to her. "It's a shell company of a small private oil refinery outfit in Brunei. It's actually a uranium mining company with direct links to Russian nuclear fission projects. Nukes, Miss Tyrell. You help us build nukes. Dig a little deeper and you'll find some very familiar names that are sure to make your Prime Minister Chifley squirm and some cabinet ministers run for cover. So you see," Pyotr smiles, "you are not so far away from the action. Your land is overflowing with natural blessings and we are only too happy to relieve you of some of it."

 _Fucking fuck,_ Margaery groans to herself. Yet another scrap of falsified evidence. One look at the letterhead, and she already knows what it's all about. It's still part of his cover, his legend, all of it. He still has not technically betrayed Russia, the cocksucker. 

Margaery flicks her cigarette holder and rubs her forehead irritably. "Tell me, Mr Baelish. Just..." She waves her cigarette vaguely, dropping more ash. "Help me understand, please. Why are you wasting my time like this? Do you even want to be in Australia? 

"Yes." He pushes the invoice forward, the one of the fake uranium mining company. "Why do you not believe this?" His words are soft and neutral, but his eyes are watching her. It creeps her out, frankly, the way he almost never blinks sometimes.  

"I want you to tell me again," she says instead, as if she never heard him. "And this time, I want you to think very carefully before you answer this question. Because I'll know when you're lying and I can't take it anymore. I'm out the door as soon as you bullshit me. So tell me, Mr Baelish..." And Margaery leans in again, her face inches from his own. "Why haven't you been telling me the truth about why you are seeking asylum. Because this is a trick?"

"Because it is embarrassing."

She blinks once and then straightens her back. "Explain."

"Because it is the oldest story ever told." He sighs and now it is he who is rubbing his forehead tiredly. "Because I met a woman, and I've fallen in love. Because Russia cannot give me the future we want. I have a prominent wife I would have to get rid of quietly, first of all. And that will not please Moscow. 

"But more than that — Communism will kill us both. It will rob my beloved's will to live and will therefore kill me. And yes, I am a powerful man, as you have pointed out. And yet I would sacrifice it all and die for her — even by her own hand. But such is love, is it not. The embarrassing extravagance, the lunacy, the oldest and greatest story ever told. The maker of fools."

"You are hardly a fool."

"Am I lying to you now, Miss Tyrell."

One long, searching look into the infamous Agent's face and she can no longer deny it. Yes, he loves her. By God, Starikov had done it again. And yes, his allegiance is no longer with Russia. The way to a man's heart is often far simpler than one thinks, or perhaps expects for himself.

Sansa watches as Margaery flashes the mirror a look of triumph, as she hastily excuses herself, as she leaves the room and closes the door behind her, the one that cannot be opened from the inside. She watches as Margaery hurries southward down the corridor to make the call. And then Sansa stares at Pyotr, as he pivots in his chair until he sits facing her squarely. As he stares back at the two-way mirror almost as if he can see her, as if he were looking straight into her soul.

 _Why_ , she asks him heart to heart, one hand on the glass as if holding his face, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on TWO prompts:  
> 
> 
> * From PetyrBaaaeeelish — Could you please write a prompt with PxS based on this quote, "Every lie has some truth in it, sweetling."  
> 
> * From Mrs_Pennylane — Prompt: Petyr x Sansa, cold war, he is a russian spy and she is just a girl who's looking for an adventure. It could be how they met, how they fell in love, it doesn't matter.
> 
> So this didn't end up being a vignette at all. I read some stuff, bounced around some initial ideas with apocketfulofwry (she gave me the idea of the interrogation by Margaery. I think she just wanted to see Marge again, hehehe), and then the story had to be told in its entirety — or at least fleshed out to this fuller extent. I've never written anything like this before — Cold War, espionage, anything Russian-y... BIG APOLOGIES in advance if I've completely butchered authentic Russian Cold War sensibilities in the making of this fic. 
> 
> Enoch Asher Adamo Ogden is actually an anagram of Dean Gooderham Acheson — the real Under Secretary to Truman and the architect of the Marshall Plan. I just didn't want to use his real name because I didn't want to make him a fictional adulterer. I was also inspired by the true events of the Petrov Affair — where a Russian diplomat based in Canberra actually defected to Australia during the Cold War, with the added complication of his wife also being an MVD agent (and whom he initially had not planned to defect with. Whoops.) I borrowed elements of their story, and then largely made up the rest.


End file.
